Efflorescence
by VioletX10
Summary: Aerith reflects back to the time she had given a girl a white rose.


**Efflorescence**

_Violet X10_

_Disclaimer: I don't own Final Fantasy. :(_

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><p><strong>2018-03-21<strong>

Dear Stranger,

Do you remember when it all began? That summer's day in the park, when I was tending to my flower stall handing out rosemary to every couple who passed me by, I met you, you know. Well, you'll probably never remember, we were strangers. Maybe you're even wondering why I'm writing this to you – eleven summers have passed and I haven't seen you, not once. Maybe you've left town; gone to a different park; you're too busy or…no, I'm far too optimistic to think that.

But, please read, and think back to that summer: the first and last one where I gave you a white rose, and you refused. Picture the blue skies and the cotton-candy clouds, children laughing everywhere, and then recall the inner war you waged within yourself when you threw that rose away.

To be honest, I didn't expect someone like you to pass my meek flower stall in all my twenty-two years. People like you are rare. It takes an exceptional amount of patience to combine all that perplexity and grief with strength and deception. Oh, I knew at first sight you were an artist. Although your hands were not of my smooth alabaster, I found a small comfort when their roughness brushed against mine. I remember thinking, "My God, what a perfect human being", even when you were far from it.

The sun had scorched my skin a little and I found myself struggling to maintain a polite smile amidst my exhaustion. I scoured the whole park with eagle eyes. It was only midday – the peak of visiting hours – and yet there was rosemary discarded everywhere. I guess those boys and girls don't know much about The Language of Flowers. But, you know, at the end of each day's life I gave them a message and a good flower is equivalent to a good deed, that's what I say.

So, anyway, I'd gotten to the point where a cheerful couple bought some flowers on display. The woman bought a pink camellia, giving it the man with the intense understanding of its meaning burning in her eyes, whilst the man presented her with a bouquet of white jonquils, smiling sheepishly as he did so. But you don't know the happiness I felt swelling in my chest when I learned they spoke my language. My beam, forgive me if I am exaggerating, outshone the sun itself and out of excitement I offered them primrose. They left with hands entwined.

And then you came along, black clothing distinguishing you amongst light-clothed citizens. Upon your face you wore a tight frown, your pale face and short black hair contrasting each other perfectly. I thought you were a mime at first.

I said, "Good afternoon, ma'am" with the most politeness I could sniff out from all that tiredness.

I don't think you answered at first, but when I offered you a ranunculus, your grey eyes flickered to my viridian green almost instantaneously. "Would you like to purchase a flower?" I asked.

You shook your head shakily. "I-I don't have any money…" you managed to stutter.

"It's for free," I promised, pity overcoming poverty.

You nodded slowly and held out a hesitant hand. I giggled girlishly. "Tell me about yourself first, so I can pinpoint something to give to you."

"J-Just give me a-anything," you squeaked. And just now, as I'm writing these recollections, that I never asked for your name. I must now berate myself for this. Moving on…

"No, no, it's part of the contract with customers of my fabulous stall that the flower I give is meaningful to the buyer," I said.

You moved suddenly to get away from this freakish psycho girl who is way too happy for her own good. But, nuh-uh, it's a good thing I caught your arm in time. I noticed you wince and grimaced in reply. Apologies followed.

At last, you sighed in exasperation. "Okay."

My eyes lit up at the sound of that affirmation, and for the thousandth time I smiled. "Great! Take your time." I didn't realize that the sun would burn my hair in the time you took to give out your story. I don't remember your exact words to describe your grief-stricken youth, but I think I will have to remind you even if you have been trying to run away from it. Take note of this, kind stranger: running away from your past will never make it better because it will always catch up to you – it's better to accept it for what it is and it will be ready to accept you.

You were born on November 20 1991 in a rural village somewhere in Japan. My memory is failing me these days…I must have Alzheimer's. Your said your mother died of an illness when you were at the tender age of three, and your father was an important general in the army so really, you were all alone up until your tenth birthday when you met a boy.

No, I understand it wasn't that kind of _boy_…more like a brother, but from the story you told me (minus all that stammering that made it hard to take in) you grew to love him like _that_. You didn't give him a name, only his initials: VV. It's only after eleven years that I realize that that boy (now man) is, well, Vincent Valentine. Who knew he would be so successful after growing up in one of the most impoverished places in the country? Do you still love him now? And in _that_ way?

Dear stranger, your story fascinated me. Only an artist could talk of the hardships you faced with such vibrant imagery and colour. Your student days were unremarkable in neither a good nor bad way, your adolescence you were still driving through back then. You spoke sullenly of the way Valentine abandoned you when he was shipped away to America to find work, and the loneliness you felt when you forced yourself to believe you would never see him again.

At the end of the story, I couldn't speak. I only had enough strength to give you a single white rose. Because that's what you are: pure innocence, a being of secrecy and silence.

And I didn't mind at all that you threw it away.

"That's not me," you said. "I'm not…that." You were referring to the white rose, do you remember?

"Really?" I inquired with incredulous eyes. "I thought it fitted you perfectly. Come on, it's free, just take it."

You took it obediently and I witnessed a gentle downward tug on your chapped lips. "You got me all wrong…I'm no white rose." You closed your eyes and my eyebrows furrowed as a crystalline tear rolled down your cheek. I sensed a powerful aura of pain and deceit and rejection sourcing from your small figure. "Give me a yellow rose…or a common thistle…just not…innocence." You blinked back more tears, and I swore those alluring silver eyes gazed outwards in an icy stare.

I gulped. "You can throw it away if you want."

You only nodded twice and you dropped it on the ground and you left without a second glance. And I wonder…do you still remember me?

I had never gotten anyone wrong, not with flowers. I'm sure I gave you the right blossom, I'm sure of it. And yet…why did you deny everything? I listened to you, I freed you of charge, and I witnessed the efflorescence of a verdant flower with an attentiveness I never knew I held.

But I guess people do make mistakes, even when they're really good at comprehending topics like flowers, it's in their nature. So maybe you were right. Maybe the white rose wasn't for you and I should've given you a yellow one. Maybe you needed a common thistle to show the world misanthropy in a small fuzzy perennial.

And maybe I could've done something to stop you. You know, from wilting.

Yours truly,

Aerith Gainsborough.

Florist.

P.S. Please find attached two flowers: Iris and Syringa – _Message _and _Memory_.

**~Blue Salvia and Spindle Tree~**

Aerith sniffed quietly as she knelt down on cushioned grass, facing a stone-cold headstone of a woman she once knew. It was December 2067, the anniversary of the White Rose's death. She had found her sleeping form slumped on the bench just beside her stall.

That was forty years ago. She had her buried in Central Park and planted a field of white and yellow roses with common thistles outlining the headstone. She had invited Valentine and he had shed a tear at her solitary funeral, reminiscing and atoning. He prayed she would forgive him for leaving her without a goodbye and never contacting her.

She had also invited the Camellia and the Jonquil – Tifa and Cloud – who visited her stall every week to buy each other flowers. Even though they didn't know the person in question, they were deeply saddened when Aerith spoke to them of her story.

Because even if her story wasn't as extravagant or as tragic as other peoples' tales, what made it so amazing was the sincerity and the truth that hid behind it when she talked and talked and talked.

Because that story was her efflorescence, and that was the last time she bloomed before wilting and succumbing into the soils of the earth forever.

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><p><strong>AN: ... i honestly don't even know what I wrote. I haven't proof-read this or anything so if you spot any mistakes, please do tell me and if you have the time, please leave a kind review. :)**


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